


Panama Disease

by emlary



Series: Alberto Ammann (Secretly) Approves [2]
Category: Narcos (TV), Narcos: Mexico (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Established Relationship, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, M/M, Only if Félix did mean it when he mentioned partners, Partner Betrayal, This Is STUPID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:49:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23001658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emlary/pseuds/emlary
Summary: "You need to stop doing this. You can't save everyone. About Acosta…it's not your fault." Amado had never let his guard down like this. But everything paled in comparison with being comforted by Félix himself.Or Amado hasn't betrayed Miguel Ángel, not yet. Two strangers, an old knockoff watch, one almost impossible night in Sylmar, California. Set in-between 2x09 and 2x10.RE-WRITE IN ENGLISH BECAUSE WHY NOT? SEASON 3 IS COMING SOON! 中文版在第二至第四章。
Relationships: Amado Carrillo Fuentes/Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo
Series: Alberto Ammann (Secretly) Approves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640404
Comments: 23
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [birds that were sleeping in your soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795984) by [indigostohelit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit/pseuds/indigostohelit). 



> 感谢D，上船后相互作伴，这船一路开到黑也值得了。请继续，不要停。
> 
> Kudos to my lovely beta [GunpowderFlaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GunpowderFlaw/pseuds/GunpowderFlaw). An angel and a great friend.

Taking civilian flights to Los Angeles is always irritating. Minivans at LAX's arrival zone require an infinite period of time to fill a full carload, and taxi drivers practically ignore everyone. Not to mention the traffic on I-405, even at 10 p.m. When Amado attended an aviation training academy a decade ago, he'd get stuck in a car for hours every time after arrival.

Now he's flying private, his plane gliding gracefully over the city of angels. During the descent, I-405 is merely two reversed-running rivers beneath, with the northbound lanes full of red tail lights and the southbound lanes full of white headlights. They twist and turn simultaneously, stretching miles in the dark like two long snakes having a fight from thousands of feet above. This is a fallen city where cathedrals cannot be seen in the starless night. No foreign drug lord will rush to this land without an army on the ground. 

However, being a drug lord also helps. He's the pilot in command, flying his own aircraft and getting to choose whichever airport he prefers. Fuck LAX and the endless waiting line for landing smaller aircrafts. He jokes about this with the air traffic control officers before landing at a remote airport in the northern suburbs. Besides a suitcase that is neatly stacked with C-notes, the man in black is clean as a whistle. And jokes are all good as long as airport staff see the money. A black pickup is waiting outside. How would he explain it if the bellboy knew who Amado Carrillo Fuentes really is? The future Lord of the Skies does not always fly the magical white powder. Occasionally he flies for non-drug business and he also rides cars.   
  
Fortunately, Sylmar is just a few blocks away. The driver asks if he's in a hurry. He shakes his head. He's taking full precautions. Avoiding a speeding ticket is as important as securing twenty metric tons of cocaine in the same district. Amado won't risk leaving anything on the record.  
  
After flying the seventy tons of real shit to Juárez weeks ago, he divided it into four equal parts following Félix's order, which were later moved across the border via different routes by different plazas. He took his fair share, reloaded the trucks then sent them to El Paso. But how and when the seventy fucking tons assemble again on the other side of border is questionable. No one sends him, Amado's a natural worrier, which in his defense is justifiable when a deal worth twenty billion dollars hasn't gone through yet. It's simply not done until everyone gets paid. He explained the trip to his boss before taking off, the necessity to ensure that all the goods make Sylmar is out of "deep respect" for his fellow Sinaloans. Aguilar, as a police chief, has very limited understanding of _bandidote_. 

*

It's like when Mimi tried to talk him into Acosta's retirement plan. Regarding the never-ending cartel wars, the self-righteous American chick drew a weird analogy of international geopolitics. She claimed the key to containing Israel and Saudi Arabia is to find their common enemy, Iran. Yet Félix failed to find the "Iran" of Sinaloa and Tijuana and still treated it as a money issue. Ironically, money can't solve everything. It's only a matter of time before the two cartels start new feud over some bullshit. It's admirable Mimi's got the bigger picture from the perspective of an outsider. Too bad he's an insider, and he doesn't want to get killed by either side. He can't play Félix's game any longer despite he's played it damn well—the objective, the challenge and the reward, a full circle. 

No that he doesn't enjoy the rewards.  
  
The first was a tailored suit. That was also the first time he killed someone for Félix. After the job was done, he found the man who gave orders laid back languidly on the sofa, a bit tired, with a loose bow-tie and white shirt wrinkled as if it went through something eventful. He didn't understand how tiring a wedding in a luxury hotel could ever be, compared to running errands such as killing a bunch of DFS assholes in the middle of the night. That said, he had this imagination of Félix being the spotlight of night, maybe an hour or two ago, hair slicked back perfectly, dressed in an exquisite tuxedo which gave the ex-Sinaloan police officer everything he dreamed of, an identity, social status and respect. Félix's handsome enough to be on the cover of local tabloids, categorized as one of the celebrities who attended the wedding of the governor's son.  
  
Félix narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the black jacket Amado often wore. First he praised he did a good job, then said sorry he missed all the great Mezcal from the after-party due to the job. When he mentioned the party, the man seemed to have a small self-deprecating laugh for unknown reasons. Amado stood still, didn't ask a single question. Then out of nowhere Félix promised he would fix him a good set of suits. "Someday it will be useful." The boss said as if the best was yet to come for _both_ of them. Back then there's absolutely nothing personal between them.  
  
The most recent reward was…sex. He's allowed to do anything he desired with Félix. With everything that happened to Cochi and Palma, he hesitated for a long time before giving in. He put on the fake golden watch that Acosta returned to him before his own death. He thought the message was very clear because Félix has been one of the last two people still breathing who know the story of the watch and what it means. He waited for Félix to figure it out, for the perfect storm when shit hit the fan, for the last chance he gave Félix to break his promise. Amado told himself, it had to be the last time. This was fair. Félix didn't answer him before, why he thought his most reliable right-hand man would back off. The question sent away the rare dimples from that handsome face, leaving Amado sleepless all night. Not only was the bright future for him and the whole federation the thin man put on the table, but also the fact they both were treading on thin ice of mutual trust.  
  
They were so close. Félix carried the smell of coffee, cologne, and some fresh newspaper ink. And all he carried was the secret of aircraft trackers planted by the DEA. To use the intelligence to counterstrike the feds or against Félix was like two sides of a coin. When he's able to spend tens of millions buying a fleet, and did the hard work like maintenance and repair all by himself, he'd naturally have the upper hand. It's more romantic of Acosta rather than being old-fashioned when the OG claimed stabbing Félix in the back would happen "someday", as if it was the closing sequence of a Western cowboy movie. On the contrary, Amado can do it _now_.   
  
Félix ignored the fake golden watch, touching him beneath the strap. He's tempted with his blood burning, would the increasingly fast pulse give him away?  
  
"You need to stop doing this. You can't save everyone. About Acosta…it's not your fault."  
  
Of course Félix knew about the watch. The boss took his wrist, dry fingers replaced by wet lips. It almost seemed like he's kissing a delicate piece of art, extending from the beating pulse to the long lifeline of the palm. It was warm and intimate. Amado had never let his guard down like this. But everything paled in comparison with being comforted by Félix himself.   
  
Amado closed his eyes and saw the last meeting with Acosta vividly. He thought he could _manage_ it. He could persuade Mimi to stay south of the border. He could make the old fool Acosta forget about his retirement. And most importantly he could ask Félix to show some mercy. No one would've died. When the news of Acosta's death arrived that night, he was still in that shack on the construction site. On the brand new runway outside, Félix's future aviation empire was about to take off. Inside the "office", he put down the phone. A tracker that was just removed from one of the planes suddenly became a time bomb, and it's up to him where to detonate.  
  
He just promised Acosta the other night, that Félix needed him, Félix would listen to him. He really thought he was _somebody_ to Félix. The trepidation, the grudge, and the idea of smashing a hole in the wall behind his boss, Félix knew by now, all because of a fucking watch.  
  
When Félix took his fingers in his mouth, Amado lost any upper hand in his imagination. Now he's eager to ingratiate himself with his boss, once again, spilling the secret of the trackers like he always did. And Félix would reward him for his loyalty and bring him closer. They snuggled like a couple, leaving whispers that made each other's heart beat faster. Félix looked at him through his drooping eyelashes, giving him a soft suck around his middle finger. No word needed to be said, Amado would do it, risking his neck either building Félix's empire or fucking him senseless.  
  
He didn't report to Félix until everything was taken care of regarding the plan to trap the DEA guys. The fewer people knew it, the better. One of his mechanics got cold-shouldered when asking him about it after the preparation was done. Amado sent him away. It was so close, he thought, narrower than a few short-circuited wires that Félix might've not known. Instead of the watch, he's holding the destiny of Félix, no, of the entire federation. Somehow it's not as heavy as the fake-ass watch Acosta tossed back to him. He's grabbing it too tight and it left marks on his palm. Amado hasn't betrayed Félix, not yet.  
  
The call from Mexico City asking about the progress was very late. Judging from the tone from the capital, the bold plan of his obviously excited the boss. Amado didn't show any emotion though, everything was under his control. In addition to Félix's familiar voice, there were phony congratulations from politicians in the background.

"What are you wearing?" He asked abruptly. The other end of the line went silent for a moment, as if thinking about how to answer this inapt question decently.

"Black tuxedo, one will look good on you." This is how Félix handled everything, no matter how screwed the situation was, _el patrón patrón_ always kept his composure.  
  
The call ended in less than one minute. Amado put down the phone with a slight sigh. Besides the seventy tons of _real stuff_ , he's the only one left in the enormous warehouse. It's the same as the night Acosta died, he stayed late in a bar, alone. The bartender asked who he was waiting for. He said he waited too long and didn't mind waiting a little longer.  
  
He saw a lot of random things, the explicit photo of Acosta's dead body on the local newspaper, Félix looking dignified in a tuxedo, his plane casting a huge shadow on the wall of the warehouse. All popped up, inextricably intertwined right in front of his eyes when he touched himself. It didn't matter whether they were fictional or not, the stimulation was real. What if the exquisite white shirt from the presidential celebration were stained by the bloody yellow sand in the northern border town? Shielded in the shadow, Amado cursed silently this disgusting rapture when he came.

*  
  
They arrive at the address of the Sylmar warehouse, but Amado asks the driver to continue driving until he's got a general idea of the neighborhood. Los Angeles after sunset is a dark maze except for a few busy highways. And plain-looking low-rising buildings stretch across the entire block. They eventually stop after passing the warehouse's front door for the fifth time. There are two additional cars off the curb. His men are trying to crawl back to get machine guns in the trunk, Amado stops them. 

The man he's waiting for finally shows up.  
  
He'd be lying if he claimed he's not surprised at the sight of the thin man, even just from the back. So he acts surprised naturally. Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo, the No. 1 public enemy of the US Drug Enforcement Agency, has blatantly set his foot on U.S. territory. This is nothing like crossing the Rio Grande to El Paso with a fake passport for a gathering of one's Latino relatives and friends, or lining up to travel from Tijuana to San Diego every day to wash sheets or dishes. This is Los fucking Angeles. Neither adventurer or careerist suits him. With an upcoming coronation of his cocaine empire, Félix's beyond those flashy, secular labels.  
  
Félix looks a bit shocked, too. Amado's appearance is perfectly justified. He comes in person to confirm that the fine Colombian goods are in place. It has to be a coincidence to run into his boss. The reactions from the suit guys around Félix, however, are mixed. While Amado's secretly admiring the fact he hasn't seen the boss without a suit in a very long time, it seems he raises a ruckus among the strangers.

"He's my best guy. Of course he's known this place." Félix calms them down. It's very unusual the boss needs to explain himself. This "coincidence" has become more complicated than Amado expected. The other party seems to be one step ahead of him. After getting assurance from Félix, none of those guys pay him any attention when they leave.  
  
"You won't be introducing us?" He asks nonchalantly. Félix rarely looks this subdued, he waves then one car has left. Amado takes a glance at the rest of the crew, and he still hasn't figured out the worst case scenario. The Arellano Félix brothers aren't the only ones sending snitches to Guadalajara. He also learns the news of Félix's movement across the border right away. But the real purpose of the daring move is way beyond a snitch's pay grade.   
  
From the very first kilo to the 70,000 kilos, they fight for this business shoulder to shoulder. But Amado has always been a follower. Now he doesn't want to board a plane without knowing his destination any more. He's tired of letting Félix point the direction, and sometimes even Félix has no say in the direction. Whether it's the red commie jungle in Nicaragua or the perfect trap in Panama. He doesn't want to stare at Félix's back at every departure, having to guess where the man's ambition would push them next, either the top of the world or the opposite. By then, who else would Félix need? Who else would Félix listen to?  
  
Félix sends away the rest of the followers after locking up the warehouse. He takes off his jacket and baseball cap when approaching Amado. He looks unusually _informal_ , with sleeves open and hair slightly raveled. "It's all in there. No need to count it one by one," the boss guarantees, “It's just rare to spend the night on American soil.” A tight smile offsets his awkwardness. Amado also sends his men home. Car key circling at his fingertip, "Would you like to take a ride then?"   
  
This is not a good idea in every sense. Two of the biggest drug traffickers on earth roam in a foreign country without any security but a fat bounty on their heads. If two people who should've not met meet, one must know the real reason why.   
  
"Guess we're gonna miss the curfew of CIA's safe house." Félix half-jokes.  
  
Amado has never thought of the real conversation with Félix starting with "Why Mexico's largest drug lord would become an CIA informant?" Since it's Félix who starts it, the night is doomed to be long.   
  
*  
  
The first thing he thinks of when they get in the car is to turn on the radio, which is full of country or folk tunes in the evening. It'd have been great if this was a trip from Juárez to Ojinaga, rocking the yellow sandy road. He used to drive all day to that dirty, run-down town to track down his carefree boss many times because Acosta didn't answer the damn phone. Whenever they had a blowout, he had to wait under the burning sun while his guys were busy jacking up the car and tightening screws. He was too impatient to just stand by, so he'd join them most of the time, working their asses off to a point his black shirt almost caught fire from the sunburn. So when Amado found the old ass Chihuahua cowboy chilling out in a roadside diner, floral curtain shielding the afternoon sunlight from his face, he really wanted to knock Acosta out with a hammer. Kidnapping his boss back to Juárez would be the most efficient way to get his job done. Let the boss be a boss, _make_ all of his people actually work. Otherwise the airport, the runway and the warehouse wouldn't build themselves. Acosta just raised his cold beer in a toast, then taking a sip with salt and mint as if to mock him for being on Félix's leash. He's on the run every waking minute.  
  
Juárez was never in his plans, but that didn't matter. Because Félix said Juárez was important, and here he was. Every day from the moment he opened his eyes, he focused on which tasks could be struck off from his never-ending to-do list. He worked his tail off. Only his hoarse voice ravaged by cigarettes and alcohol reminded the Sinaloan of how terrible the desert climate was. He couldn't wait for the day he got the hell out of here. Juárez was merely his stepping stone to Félix.  
  
"What's on your mind?" The thin man turns to him from the passenger seat.  
  
Amado immediately apologizes, though there's no blame in Félix's tone. He shouldn't get sentimental this quick. They are passing through North Hollywood, an almost empty borough at night. Félix looks tender from the faint blue light from the dashboard, which softens the wrinkles around the corner of the man's eyes.  
  
"I was thinking…that no one would recognize us even if we drove all the way to Beverly Hills. It's pretty romantic, huh?" He's taking the chance. "Uh huh," Félix continues, "I didn't know you've been romantic."  
  
"And I didn't know I'd run into _el padrino_ in the United fucking States." He snaps back.  
  
Félix is apparently amused by the street name which was never being called when they were alone, "Didn't you visit Uncle Sam several times to find Acosta?" God, he must have been on some messed-up weeds to find it sweet, like Félix's jealous, sort of.  
  
"That's Texas, _cabrón_." Amado retorts. Now they're back on everyday terms, and the mood in the car finally eases a little.  
  
He could feel Félix staring at the golden watch on his left hand, resting on the steering wheel. That's the only shining thing in the car right now. Félix has always been good at dealing with people. Names like Neto and Acosta were carefully mentioned, tended to, eventually dropped.  
  
He agreed that's how _this_ world worked, like a huge machine that continued to run after dilapidated old parts were replaced. This was no Scarface, no one would die for glory. One needed the losers' skeleton as a stepping stone to climb up the ladder. No matter how absurd or outrageous Félix's decisions were, they were justified with this mindset. People around Félix who made mistakes disappeared one by one. He's just watching, whether it's Rafa's arrogance and stubbornness or Neto's languid ass.  
  
Amado doesn't make mistakes, and he always aims for the most effective way. There's no going back for them, and Amado even feels this is the only thing remotely romantic between him and Félix.  
  
The dimly lit streets in front of them may be their last ride. Imagine two outsiders with Mexican accents in a foreign city, walking down the tourist-packed Hollywood Walk of Fame. The tall guy laments why he couldn't find the star of Lucía Méndez, the short one kicks his butt, reminding him that they're in Hollywood instead of DF. Then he tosses a few coins to a Michael Jackson impersonator. No one knows who they are, and pedestrians come and go, just minding their own business. The busy boulevard serves as the background as well as the only main character that stays.  
  
Amado laughs at his imagination, which is more comical than Acosta's retirement plan for a Texan cowgirl.  
  
"You wanted to ask about the CIA, right?" Félix breaks the silence.  
  
There's no way he's replying "No, I wanted to ask you out," so he just goes with it.  
  
The man who swore to build an empire in front of a desert explains everything in a very calm manner. Basically Félix has "given" the address of the warehouse in Sylmar with $7 billion worth of cocaine to Uncle Sam in order to gain upper hand against the Colombians.  
  
"I don't want to just do them a favor, I want them to owe me a favor, a big one." Félix snorts. As for why he goes to the CIA instead of the DEA, Amado quickly connects the dots. The CIA still needs Félix and his fleet. They are also more than happy to _help_ the DEA, a lower-rank agency in the bureaucratic hierarchy, which will owe them a big one afterwards. With the support of the CIA, the secret entry of Mexico's high profile drug lord is just a matter of a few phone calls. Félix shows them a good deed. After all, this is twenty tons of cocaine that will rewrite the history of America's anti-narcotics endeavor.  
  
If Neto's snoring were added from the rear seat, it'd be like they were back in that old Chevy all over again, hustling around the northern states, from desert to coast. The thin man next to him back then also spoke with confidence like this, about building an empire or something. The only difference is that the younger Félix frowned a lot, only relaxed a little to one of his jokes occasionally.  
  
Then an old song of Bob Dylan came on the radio, interrupting their conversation.  
  
_Because something is happening here  
But y'all don't know what it is_  
_Do you, Mister Jones?  
  
_"Sorry," Amado turns down the volume, "I don't know what you're listening to nowadays."  
  
"Sometimes it's Mozart. I like his piano concertos." Félix sounds detached. Great, now they're going to talk about Mozart? The following silence seems harsher than the music in the radio. Félix won't ask him if he thinks getting in bed with the CIA is a good idea, and he won't ask Félix if he's crazy. It's no longer a question of risk control or cost-benefit analysis. Sabotaging the supplier can't be good for any business, which he'd rather not know.  
  
But this is what he intended to find out in the first place, by orchestrating this _coincidence_. He has no rights to regret it. He can't even make excuses for Félix that he's lying to him, because those at the top of the hierarchy don't need to lie to those below them. Félix has always had a plan for him, a future that amazed him, made him bow down to _el jefe de jefes_. And Félix is the one who truly believes in it, which is why he doesn't need to be a philanthropist helping the poor or become a chef hiding in the countryside like other old guys do in this business. The desire for more power is strong enough to drive him forward, betray anyone if necessary. He's invincible because he's distracted by no one.  
  
The fear that everything between them will stop once he hits the brakes torments him. It's the last view from the edge before jumping off the cliff, the last breath before a deep dive, the last dance before the end of the world. He couldn't tell anyone though, couldn't make it a future anniversary, couldn't even imagine having a last dinner with Félix in any Americanized Mexican restaurant here.  
  
It's impossible to tell whose stomach growls. Surely neither of them have had dinner yet. "Would you like to grab something? I know a burrito place not far from here at 5808 Sunset Boulevard. They have very authentic green salsa sauce. I used to go there a lot when I was in the flight academy." He suggests.  
  
"You sure it's still open?" Félix seems interested.  
  
They find the all-nighter Mexican eatery next to a gas station. Amado goes to get the food. When he returns to the car with cheap, colorful plastic dinner plates in both hands, Félix also brings beer and nachos from the gas station's mini-store.  
  
The man who's about to monopolize the entire North American drug trafficking network, eats fried tacos dipped in the sauce standing next to LA's late night traffic, getting greasy everywhere while listening to María Alma's sad love songs on the radio. For a brief moment, they enjoy it like those expensive tuxedos, luxurious mansions and five-star hotels never exist. It seems Félix couldn't find a lighter after finishing the food. So the boss asks him for one. He stares at him up close, and Félix looks up to meet his eyes, both trying to see each other through the flames. He keeps the lighter on until Félix withdraws his hand from shielding the flame. The small piece of metal burns between his fingers, yet he doesn't feel the pain.  
  
Many strangers along this non-stop boulevard would do the same, starting a conversation, innocent or not, by borrowing a lighter. And when a cigarette is finished, they remain strangers.  
  
"Can I ask you to take me somewhere?" Félix asks politely.  
  
Amado is willing to drive him to anywhere in the whole world. If this was an escape for both of them, he'd take him now, immediately, right away.  
  
Turns out the boss has been nice because he wants to find a place high up overlooking downtown Los Angeles at night. "I don't know if you're in the mood for it, I always enjoy a nice night view. I remember a movie shot here with the night view of the city." Félix explains. The man is in a rare good mood for sure.  
  
This is Hollywood. There are countless movies that are shot here. Miguel Ángel really should work on his dating gimmicks. Yeah, he thought about calling him Miguel Ángel. Everyone close to him calls him that, but Amado never did before. The pronunciation of the name on the tip of his tongue tastes like Félix's aftershave. He wants to go on a date with him, invite him to a movie, kiss him in the parking lot, which brings them a happy ending like in the movies. He knows it's absurd and this is not a movie. The only way to stop Félix is to **become** Félix.  
  
Félix isn't the only one who crosses the line, Amado knows better than anyone. He's also destined to cross the line of loyalty, integrity, and all the shining nice words. Acosta's death gives him a taste of anger as violent as a desert storm. But he could never be a guy like Acosta, and no one would mourn for him after the death of a betrayer, let alone an entire town.  
  
Both of them have flirted with the idea of betrayal. No one's innocent.  
  
At night cars are not allowed to drive directly to the entrance of Griffith Observatory as in Rebel Without A Cause, they have to take a trail up to Hollywood Hill. Félix even jokes that if the DEA knew they had missed the opportunity to catch two Mexican drug lords at their doorstep, they would probably resign collectively. Amado is familiar with the neighborhood, the best view is from the southwest-facing observation deck. It's an open area and the wind is very strong without any obstacles. The night view of Los Angeles is actually quite boring. There's no such thing as _skyline_ with just a few tall buildings downtown. The fallen city is more like a star map, neon lights spreading out in all directions, covering almost the entire Los Angeles basin. It also eliminates any chance of seeing the real stars.  
  
"I'm not just here for the feds," says Félix, who doesn't seem to mind the cold wind at the top of the hill as he leans on a coin-operated telescope and turns to Amado. He points at the city view, "This. Amado, this is our future. When we get into retail, the Greater Los Angeles area will be our biggest market with millions of junkies and many well-established Mexican gangs."  
  
Félix couldn't hide his excitement, as if it'd cheer Amado up as well. The boss talks further about meeting with several Mexican gangs in Southern California earlier that day. Some players have already shown interest in collaboration from the warehouse to the streets. The future seems to be at Félix's fingertips where the city never sleeps. And in the heat of the moment, he doesn't notice the wind is messing up his hair.  
  
Before he knows it, Amado has reached out to tuck a strand of Félix's hair back. They only had a few Corona beers before and are far from drunk enough to be this intimate in public. It isn't until Félix caresses his face and starts kissing him recklessly that Amado finally lets loose his self-control. He bites the other man's full lips, whispering a few unfamiliar syllables, "Miguel Ángel…" He responds to the bold kiss as if they were strangers.  
  
Because this might as well be their last kiss.  
  
*  
  
Félix must have found _it_. His hands around Amado's waist suddenly stop as he rubs against the hardening part of his pilot.  
  
Amado knows what it looks like. Félix has acted as a civilian since entering the States under CIA's cover. After being stripped of that FedEx-like courier's jacket, the boss doesn't even have a lighter. While on the contrary he has loads of munitions in the trunk of his car, in addition to that Beretta carried on his back. The thin man in his arms right now is like a newborn Yucatan cantil viper, defenseless.  
  
He can explain this is a precautionary measure. Who knows what kind of situation he'd run into in a warehouse with tons of cocaine in the middle of the night. Or there's no need for explanation. Félix already said he is his _best_ guy. Of course he comes prepared with a full trunk of munitions that can overthrow half of LAPD, a necessity to protect their most valuable assets, just as he has been doing for so long.  
  
Félix stops right there, holding that gun behind his back, which makes Amado harder than the kiss did. He thinks of all the men Félix has killed. He's seen them all, including the stupid Sinaloan monkey, and the self-absorbed DFS suit guy. He's never mentioned it to anyone that the way Félix kills with his own hands makes him feel something unfamiliar, almost arousal. The time with the DFS guy, after cleaning the mess and escorting the boss to the suite, he's half-hard once he left the room. Félix was one door away, close enough that he was able to transfer what he just saw to his own sensual pleasures.  
  
The cartel wars are like unknown hybrid marijuana strains, either get higher high or lower low; him taking care of the business is like the prescribed fentanyl, precise and punctual; yet when Félix does it, he doesn't like to describe it this way, but he has to admit it's like the purest cocaine made by the Colombians, making him addicted.  
  
But Amado knows the boss will not pull that gun. Because Félix only kills men who wear suits, whether with a Navajo bolo tie or an expensive three-piece suit. The others don't deserve it from the boss. He didn't notice it before when he annoyed the hell out of whom he thought was Félix's most valuable lieutenant. By throwing the dilemma to Félix, he took a huge gamble. Félix did choose him over Rafael Caro Quintero. And the fall of the hothead didn't require Félix pulling the trigger. He wouldn't do it himself for the sake of an inferior.  
  
Amado's a little frustrated. Soon enough Félix's hand returns to the front of his body, palming him through his pants. The cheap fabric almost causes sparks from the grinding in the darkness.  
  
“We should spend the night somewhere else.”  
  
Unexpectedly they find the CIA safe house in the middle of the town. A few cars nearby look suspicious. But no one from the "security team" approaches them. There must be more sleepless souls than the two Mexican strangers tonight. Amado pulls over between two CIA vehicles. Instead of going in together, he waits, lighting another cigarette on the late night breeze. Los Angeles at this hour is still in turmoil, the sound of sirens blaring then fading from the east to the west, probably on Wilshire Boulevard a few blocks away. It will soon play out in the northern suburbs of Sylmar as well. The whole world, like thousands of people in the neighborhood at the moment, sleeps on a historical opportunity. At least they sleep well tonight, he chuckles. After making sure there's nothing going on around the property, he finally stomps out his cigarette and turns to the house.  
  
Inside Félix hasn't changed. He leans back on the bed, two buttons of his shirt loose and a book open on his lap. He looks unconcerned.  
  
"They only put a Bible in here." The thin man closes the book with a crimson cover, which at first glance in the pale light of the reading lamp looks like the color of dried blood stain on his hands after killing someone.  
  
Amado takes off his black jacket in silence. He turns around, making sure Félix sees that Beretta rests on the table. The air doesn't freeze as in a mafia movie when there is a plot twist. Félix holds his gaze as he hands the gun straight to the hands of the older man, like landing a plane via a preset route.  
  
"Hold it if it makes you more…comfortable."  
  
The slight curve of Félix's upper lip suggests it's more of a joke. And it's bizarre that the gun doesn't look like a deadly weapon in his hands. Félix used to be a cop as well, though less exciting compared to Amado's experience as a secret agent with the DFS. Shooting and killing should be nature for both of them.  
  
"When was the last time you killed someone?" He couldn't resist asking.  
  
Félix smiles, "When you and the other plazas were scheming against me. I was stuck in a remote mansion Celis used for hunting, driveway full of rotted mangoes. When Calderoni and his team found me, I fired a few shots, maybe killing two or three."  
  
The man makes the life-and-death situation sound casual, but Amado knows that operation came very close. He only agreed to go to Ensenada for the meeting of the "New Alliance for the Betrayal of Félix" after a C.I. from the Sinaloa governor's office confirmed that Celis ratted Félix out.  
  
"I didn't betray you."  
"Yeah, I made sure of that."  
  
He kneels down by the bed, almost subconsciously. If that meeting had ended on a different not, if he had betrayed Félix, if… He lifts Félix's hands with the gun as if they're some sacred relic, kissing the palm like a devout believer making his confession in front of the Lord. Those hands are not made for killing.  
  
It's indeed a pair of pale hands that have spent more time signing paperwork than holding a gun in the past few years. Now Félix has more men like him for all kinds of dirty work, many of whom have never even met the thin man. So he doesn't need to be physically intimidating. It's his power that automatically makes him formidable. Those whose livelihood depends on his drug empire make him the real king. It's above the image of _el patrón._ There he is, becoming _el patrón patrón_.  
  
Amado laughs at those fools who jump on the cocaine bandwagon. Yet he's Félix's most loyal follower from the very beginning. No one knows what he's truly after except Acosta, but then the old guy brought it to the grave.  
  
He kisses each knuckle passionately, the black metal still ice cold in Félix's palm.  
  
"You know I don't really need a gun, Amado." Félix makes it clear by sliding the pistol down between the taller guy's legs. His movement is so graceful like a golf swing. Quick side note, if it's necessary for their business, Amado believes Félix would pick up golf in no time.  
  
The shape of his half-hard cock is outlined by the tip of the gun. He's about to protest then stopped by Félix with his other hand, "You don't want them to know, do you? Like Pacho Herrera."  
  
There must have been some surveillance devices in the safe house. But he doesn't understand the mention of the Colombian. Except the last time they met, the slick guy had been extra cautious, sending a security expert for a thorough anti-bugging check of the suite ahead of their meeting. "You didn't know?" The way Félix raises his eyebrows is deadly arousing, and soon they move from the bedside to the bathroom.  
  
The shower is turned on, steaming up the tiny space. Félix's misty eyes are on him when he makes a mess of the boss against the tiles. Everything is wet, and it's real, unlike any of his wet dreams amid the desert of Juárez. He's not into the _scandal_ of their supplier when Félix keeps making those little pretty noises from his touch. Some technical procedure is certainly required to muffle the particular sound when the CIA retrieves the tape later.  
  
That explains the extra warm greetings he received when he went to Chiapas to welcome the Colombians with their best products. It's absurd. He never thought about that until now, considering what he and Félix are _doing_.  
  
"He'd been eye-fucking you the whole meeting in Panama, cabrón. You want his number or what?" Félix smirks.  
  
He doesn't recall the way Pacho Herrera looked at him. But he's struck by the fact that the Colombian, who's always been an outrageously flamboyant dresser, also wore a suit that day. In a bloodless fight, that's like a battle suit only Félix and those who are on par with him wear. Amado didn't wear one, too _formal_ for a right-hand man. Imagine a bullet penetrating many layers of Herrera's fine clothes, drawing the blood and leaving a stain in the shape of a blossoming bougainvillea on the fabric. Félix must have thought about it, too.  
  
He's on his knees. This would be the last time he submits to the King of Guadalajara. Félix stands tall, staring at something beyond him, as if what's at his feet is another corpse in the expansion of the empire, an enemy about to bleed $7 billion.  
  
"Do you want to put a bullet in his head?" He asks before taking Félix in. The boss is visibly more excited, "No, it's too quick. I'd let him bleed to death."  
  
He keeps going while getting Félix open. They are both painfully hard. Then he stands up, rips the only shirt off of the thin man. Amado finally pushes in, fucking his boss against the wall in the tiny bathroom.  
  
This is not what's supposed to be. He thought of their last night together, they would _make love_ and share little intimacy afterwards. He would tell Félix a love story of an old cowboy from Chihuahua and a blonde Texan girl across Rio Grande, as well as a stupid nickname that's the exact opposite of his feature—Tontín, the smallest dwarf from Snow White, how a vicious drug lord read the fairy tale to his young daughter and decided to call him that. They would make out until dawn, feeling each other's knowing smile in endless kisses.  
  
Instead, he and the man moaning in his arms, both turned on by the gun at their feet, and the extended imagination of blood spurting all over, the fallen enemies, and more power to grasp. They are chasing a raging fire that would destroy everything, like each other's burning body. Amado closes his eyes, hitting Félix's prostate frantically while hands resting against the cold tile. Small whines escape as Félix is getting close. Amado's also about to come from the idea of Félix killing again.  
  
The day that he wore a suit as a peer, or a rival that Félix pulled the trigger at would never come.  
  
*  
  
When he's leaving in the early morning, the feds immediately stop him. They only let go of him after making sure nothing happens to the mark. Amado's annoyed some random gringos get to see Félix with his hair loose, unguarded. Plus, he doesn't take anything from the room except a phone number.  
  
Los Angeles has awakened when he takes off from the remote airport. The sun is rising over the horizon, yet the entire city is covered by a thick shroud of scarlet haze. He has seen similar scenes before. Back when he was a co-pilot, fresh out the academy, and the plane they took cruised off the rainforest in northern Chiapas near the Gulf of Mexico. The large area that should've been a green carpet blanketing the earth, was instead covered in red smoke and in some places even flames. The older pilot told him that was the banana farmers' doing. They were burning the banana trees infected with Panama yellow leaf disease. For the fear of the further infection, they burned hundreds of acres of bananas, turning day into night. Little did they know that the disease was incurable because every commercially farmed Cavendish banana was genetically identical, cloning the same cultivar without immunity against the Tropical Race 4 strain of the disease. Meaning before switching to new disease-resistant cultivars, every plant was not immune.  
  
All of them are like the banana trees infected with Panama disease, not by the strain, but greed.  
  
Amado calls that Colombian phone number after landing. He needs to get to know Pacho Herrera better, for the sake of future cooperation, and betrayal.  
  
*  
  
Félix wakes up to the Bible on the nightstand. The curtains can't hold the morning glow tainted by the scarlet haze, the whole room seems on fire. There's a thin layer of white ash covering the Bible, probably the result of a wildfire near the city the day before. And it looks as if nothing has moved a bit since he put it down last night. Everything is intact, even the dust.  
  
He's had a really great night. Now it's time to head home, waiting for that call from Colombia.


	2. Chapter 2

去洛杉矶的旅程总让人烦躁，LAX到达区等待时间漫长的小巴和对所有人爱理不理的出租车，更别说是晚上十点依然大堵车的405公路。Amado来念航校时，每次经过，都会被闷在车里好几个小时。

现在他从天使之城优雅地划过，飞机在下降过程中，下方405南北两向的车流汇集，前照灯和刹车灯一白一红，紧紧交缠，顺势蜿蜒流动，看久了宛如两条交媾中的长蛇，如梦似幻。这是一座在夜空中看不见教堂的堕落之城，没有哪个毒枭会贸然踏上这片土地。

不过当毒枭也有好处，就是不用降落在小型飞机永远要等机位的LAX。这个笑话当他降落在北郊偏僻的航校机场时，得到了塔台信号员的确认。皮箱里除了码放整齐的美元，干干净净，只要看到钱，开点玩笑自然无伤大雅。黑色的皮卡等在门口，怎么跟门卫解释呢？天空之王并不总是开飞机运毒品，偶尔也要坐坐车。还好Sylmar就在几个街区外，司机问赶不赶时间，他摇摇头，小到一张超速罚单，大到同个街区仓库里的20吨可卡因，Amado不会冒任何被记录在案的风险。

把70吨的货安全空运到华雷斯后，按Félix的意思四等分，再经陆路通过边境上不同的口岸城市汇入美国。这不是一人半磅的蚂蚁搬家，但70吨也不可能一次性到位。没人派他来，他只是放心不下，没人能扛着两百多亿美元的生意高枕无忧，在拿到钱之前。亲自到场检查自己负责那批货有没有到齐，是锡纳罗亚人出于对老乡的“理解”和“尊重”——出发前他是这么跟老板解释的，Aguilar出身警界，对山贼了解有限。

*

就像之前Mimi跟他聊Acosta的退休事宜时，说到帮派斗争永无宁日，自以为是的美国女人突然对国际政治大放阙词，她说同时牵制以色列和沙特的关键是找到他们共同的敌人伊朗。Félix没有找到锡纳罗亚和蒂华纳的“伊朗”，以为分点钱就能摁下去的火星，只等随时复燃，出岔子是迟早的事。Mimi有着局外人的聪明，而他不想死在任何一方手上，就不能再继续等下去——等Félix的命令，完成命令，又等Félix的奖赏，循环往复。

不是说他不喜欢Félix的奖赏。

最早是一套手工定制的西服。那是他第一次帮Félix杀人。回去报告时，男人略显疲态半躺在沙发上，晚礼服的领结已经散开，白衬衫皱得像遭受了巨大的灾难，他不明白高级酒店里一场体面的婚礼能有多累，相比跑腿杀人。即便如此，他仍能想象一两个小时前，觥筹交错间全场瞩目的Félix，头发梳得一丝不乱，精致的礼服衬托出锡那罗亚人想要的身份、地位和尊重，甚至英俊到足以登上小报八卦“州长嫁女”名流图集的封面。

Félix眯着眼，打量着他经常穿的黑色夹克，先说他干得好，又说抱歉让他错过了婚礼上的派对。好像有点自嘲地笑了一下，然后就说要送他一套西服，“总有一天用得上”，他说得好像他们来日方长，即使彼时他连Félix的一根手指都没碰过。

最近是……性，Félix让他做想在床上做的任何事。事前他犹豫了很久，Cochi，Palma，他甚至戴上了Acosta死前还给他那块金灿灿的假表，知道那意味着什么并且还能自由呼吸的人只剩两个。他等待着被Félix看穿，等待着反目成仇的狂风暴雨，等待着他给Félix的最后一次机会失信，他告诉自己，这真的是最后的最后。这很公平，尽管Félix之前并未回答，为什么以为他会背叛，男人唇边的酒窝稍纵即逝，留给他彻夜未眠。摆到桌面上的不仅是Félix为帮派谋划的宏图伟业，还有彼此心照不宣的如履薄冰。

他们隔得那么近，Félix身上有咖啡、古龙水和新鲜报纸油墨的味道，而他身上藏着发现DEA安装飞机追踪器的秘密情报。利用情报对付DEA和反过来对付Félix不过都是举手之劳，当他能花上千万买飞机还事必躬亲自己修飞机时，自然而然会拥有上手的筹码。与其说Acosta老派得可怜，不如说他太过浪漫，提到背后插刀说的是“在将来某一天”，好像那是一部西部牛仔片的结局。此刻，Amado就可以下手。

男人出其不意绕过大而笨拙的表盘，在表带下细细抚摸，血管中躁动的因子被挑逗着，脉搏会出卖他吗？

"You need to stop doing that. You can't save everyone. About Acosta... it's not your fault."

Félix当然认得那块表。手腕被抬起，湿热的唇舌取代了干燥的手指，男人仿佛在亲吻一件珍贵的艺术品，从跳动的脉搏到掌心长长的生命线。那是温暖而亲密的，他从不放任自己——哪抵得上被Félix亲自抚慰的堕落和欢愉。

Amado闭上眼，与Acosta最后一面的情景历历在目。他以为他都能做到，可以劝Mimi留在边境以南，可以让老倔驴Acosta放弃退休，可以说服Félix手下留情，就没人会因为这档子破事丢了性命。接到死讯时他还呆在那间简陋的办公室，外头的跑道上停着Félix未来的空中帝国，放下电话，手边那台刚拆下来的追踪器仿佛成了不定时炸弹，而他将决定在哪里引爆。

前一晚拍着胸口说Félix需要他、Félix会听他的，他真的以为他是Félix的什么人。不甘，怨恨，以及此时想把Félix身后的墙砸出个窟窿的念头……现在，Félix全知道了。

当Félix把他的手指含进去时，Amado拱手让出了先发制人的上手。筹码变成又一个跟老板邀功的勋章，Félix会好好奖励他的忠诚，让他靠得更近。他们如情人般耳鬓厮磨，留下令人心跳加快的秘语。Félix嘴里含着他的中指，低垂的眉眼透过睫毛找到高高在上的他，依然不用说一个字，Amado就会照做，杀人越货也好，跟他上床，也好。

安排妥当将计就计围猎DEA的事情，他才跟Félix汇报，知道的人越少越好。下属机械师来问他，碰了一鼻子灰，悻悻走开。只差一丁点儿，他想，真的只差几根导线的距离，Félix也许也不会知道。他手握着Félix，不，整个帮派的命运，却不及那块分量明显不足的假表——因为握太紧——留在手心的印记。他没有背叛Félix，还没有。

显然这个胆大包天的计划让老板兴奋起来了，他倒觉得没什么，一切都在掌握之中。从墨西哥城打来询问进展的电话很晚，听筒那头除了Félix压低的声音，还有政客们虚伪的祝贺声此起彼伏。

"What are you wearing?" 他突然问到，电话那头短暂地沉默，像是在思考如何体面地回答这个不合时宜的问题。

"Tuxedo, one will look good on _you_."

这就是Félix，无论多失当的状况，总有扳回来的自信。

放下讲了不到一分钟的电话，偌大的仓库里只剩他和他背后的70吨真货。Acosta死的那晚，他也是这样独自呆在快打烊的酒馆。酒保问他等谁，他等得太久了，不在意多等一会儿。

报纸上Acosta横尸街头的血腥照片，Félix穿着晚礼服庄重的模样，飞机在仓库外墙投下庞大的阴影，所有画面在高潮来临前诡异地交织在他眼前，或真实或虚无，刺激着他手中的器物。若黄沙中的血迹玷污了纯白的礼服衬衫……他藏在阴影中，无声地咒骂这令人作呕的欢愉。

*

皮卡经过了Sylmar仓库的地址，Amado示意司机继续开，直到他大致摸清附近几条路。黑暗中的洛杉矶并无二样，除了几条街外的高速公路灯火通明，低矮的平房绵延覆盖整个街区。绕了五圈再次路过仓库门口时，多出两辆车子，手下作势要爬去后面拿重型枪械，Amado摇摇手。

他等的人终于来了。

看到那个消瘦的背影，说不惊讶是骗人的，所以他的伪装并不费力。Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo，整个美国缉毒署的头号公敌，公然踏上了美国的领土，这不是从华雷斯随便拿本假护照，跨过格兰德河去对面的艾尔帕索参加西裔移民亲友聚会，也不是从蒂华纳每日排队北上圣地亚戈的酒店里洗床单、刷盘子。这是他妈的洛杉矶，不管是冒险家还是野心家，没有什么称呼配得上Félix头顶即将就位的皇冠。

而Félix看到他的惊讶只持续不到两秒，他的理由正当而充分，亲自来确认货有没有到位，遇到老板，只是个巧合。Félix身边的人反应不一，Amado暗自感叹有多久没见不穿西装的老板，对面发生了小小的骚动。

"He's my best guy. Of course, he's known this place."

竟然需要Félix亲自做解释，这次“巧合”变得不同寻常。对方似乎抢先一步验好了货，经过他身边时看都不看他一眼。

"You won't be introducing us?" 他问得自然而然，Félix难得显得有点拘谨，摆摆手，门口的车走了一辆。Amado瞄了眼剩下的随从，他仍然无法确定最坏的打算——Arellano Félix兄弟不是唯一在Guadalajara安插眼线的人。他在第一时间得知Félix将出境的消息，却无法进一步打探Félix的目的。

从第一斤到七万斤，他一直站在Félix身边。但Amado始终只是跟随者，他再也不想登上不知道目的地的飞机，由Félix指点方向，有时甚至连Félix都无法控制方向。不管是还是尼加拉瓜的红色丛林还是巴拿马的海湾陷阱。他也不想总是看着Félix离开的背影，猜测“接下来”这个男人的野心将把他们推向世界巅峰还是万劫不复，到时没有人能再夸海口说保住谁，Félix还需要谁？

Félix走出仓库，脱掉夹克衫和帽子。找Amado借火时露出敞开的衬衫袖口，他告诉他货没问题，不用点了，“难得在美国人的地盘过夜。”笑容难掩些许尴尬。Amado支走了司机，晃了晃手中的车钥匙，“那要不要去兜个风？”

这不是个好主意，各种意义上。没有安保，没有随从，陌生的国度，危险的中心，也许还有押在他们脑袋上的悬赏金。但两个都不该出现在这里的人相遇，注定有一个知道真正的原因。

"Guess we're gonna miss the curfew of CIA's safe house."

Amado没想过从“为什么墨西哥最大的毒枭会成为CIA的线人”开始他们真正的谈话。既然Félix开了口，这个夜晚注定漫长。


	3. Chapter 3

上车后他首先想到的是打开电台，晚间的节目尽是些乡村或民谣小调。倘若是从华雷斯去奥希纳加黄沙漫天的公路，倒挺合适的，他曾无数次因为Acosta不接电话，不得不开一整天的车去那个又破又脏的小镇找旷工的老板。遇上爆胎，要在太阳底下等手下撑千斤顶、拧螺丝，他嫌慢，跟着一起动手，黑衬衣背后晒得快着火了。Amado真的想过把Acosta一锤子敲晕绑回华雷斯，好让老板有个老板的样，指挥所有人干活，修机场、修跑道、修仓库。看到奇瓦瓦老牛仔悠闲地靠着路边小餐馆的半截窗帘，躲避午后阳光的炙烤，嘬一口蘸盐的薄荷，举起还冒着冷气的冰啤酒，仿佛在嘲笑他吹胡子瞪眼还没辙的样子。急什么？

华雷斯从来不在他的计划中，但那不重要，因为Félix说华雷斯很重要，他就来了。每天一睁开眼，想的就是今天能完成哪一项任务，距离结束还有多久。他经常忙到忘了时间地点，只有烟酒摧残下快冒烟的喉咙提醒着锡纳罗亚人沙漠气候有多糟糕。他等不及从这里滚蛋的那一天，华雷斯是他回到Félix身边的跳板。

“在想什么？”

不该这么快就开始多愁善感的。Amado侧过头跟Félix表示歉意，尽管对方的语气并无责怪的意思。他们正经过北好莱坞，这一片晚上连个鬼都没有，仪表盘微弱的夜光模糊了男人眼角的细纹，往常严厉的五官变得柔和起来。

“我在想，就算一路开到比佛利山，也没人会认出我们吧。好像……挺浪漫的。”

他在冒险，只听得Félix应了一声，没有反驳。接着却说：“I didn't know you've been romantic.”

"And I didn't know I'd run into _el padrino_ in the United fucking States."

Félix被这个他们独处时不可能用的称呼逗笑了，“你不也为了找Acosta去了好几次美国？” 上帝啊，他一定是吃错药了才会听出Félix有一丝吃醋。

“That's Texas, _cabrón_.” 回到日常的称呼，车里的气氛终于缓和了一点。

他能感觉到Félix的视线绕过方向盘，停留在他左手戴的金表上，那是车里唯一闪着光的东西。视线稍作停留，又回到他脸上。Félix向来懂得人情世故，Neto，Acosta，都曾被小心翼翼地提起，又小心翼翼地放下。

他也曾以为世界就是这样的，庞大的机器继续运转，老旧失修的零件该换就要换掉。都什么年代了，没有人会为了荣誉而死，往上爬，脚下注定要踩着失败者的白骨。不管Félix的决定有多荒唐离谱，他都会用这一套法则为其不择手段而辩护。他看着Félix身边犯错的人一个个消失，无论是Rafa的傲慢固执还是Neto的老派懒散；他不会犯错，他总是目标明确地指向最快最有效解决问题的办法。

他们都没有退路，Amado甚至觉得这是他和Félix之间唯一的浪漫。

而眼前昏黄的街景，或许是他们的最后一程。在陌生的城市，两个随处可见带墨西哥口音的外乡人，走在游人如织的星光大道，高个子责怪为什么找不到Lucía Méndez留下的星星，矮个子踢了他一脚，顺便给模仿迈克尔杰克逊的街头艺人扔了几个硬币，说这里是好莱坞不是DF。没有人知道他们是谁，每个擦肩而过的路人都不会多看一眼，熙熙攘攘的街道既是背景又是主角，他们很快消失在人群中，就像没有人来过。

Amado为自己脑海中这副画面暗自发笑，比Acosta要为德州女牛仔金盆洗手退隐江湖还滑稽。

“你想问CIA的事吧。”

他总不能说“我想问跟你约会的事”，也就点了点头。

那个曾对着荒漠说要建立帝国的人，平静地告诉他，为了彻底打压哥伦比亚人争取上手，他把装有价值七十亿美元可卡因的仓库地址秘密“送给”了美国警方。一通匿名电话就能搞定的事，却选择只身涉险，“I don't want to just do them a favor, I want them to owe me a favor, a big one.” 至于为什么找CIA而不是DEA，Amado很快就串联起所有线索，CIA还需要Félix，而且也乐得让职级、权势和资源都差一大截的DEA欠一个天大的人情。有了CIA的支援，墨西哥头号毒枭秘密入境不过是举手之劳，Félix既可显示诚意，又能确保情报百分百无误。毕竟，这是将改写美国缉毒历史的20吨可卡因，容不得任何差错。

如果后座加上Neto的呼噜声，恍惚间他好像回到开着那辆老旧的雪佛兰在北方各州奔波，从沙漠到海岸，身边的男人也是这般侃侃而谈，描述着他的帝国梦。只不过那时Félix总是眉头微蹙，偶尔因为他的一句玩笑才会舒展开来。

电台里响起一首老歌，像是跑调的主唱把每个单词都念得十分清晰，不想听也被迫听得清清楚楚。车里的谈话也被打断。

_Because something is happening here  
But y'all don't know what it is  
Do you, Mister Jones?_

“抱歉，” Amado关小了声音，“我不知道你现在在车里听什么。”  
“有时候是莫扎特，我喜欢钢琴曲。”

所以他们要聊莫扎特吗？沉默显得比车里的音乐还刺耳，Félix不会问他觉得告密计划好不好，而他也不会问Félix是不是疯了。这已经不是风险控制、成本收益的问题，破坏货源的生意不可能是好生意——他宁可不知道。

可这就是他涉险导演这次偶遇想要的结果，他没资格后悔。他甚至没法为Félix开脱说这是骗他的谎言，因为权力上位者不需要欺骗下位者，Félix总是为他勾画好了满满的前程似锦，那些曾经让他惊叹、倾佩直至俯首称臣的未来计划。真正对此深信不疑的人正是Félix，这也是他不需要像那些老家伙一样去乡下做慈善或大隐于世当厨子的原因，对更多权力的渴望足以支撑他一次次发起致命攻击，不惜背叛任何人，他心无杂念，他无往不胜。

Amado害怕踩下刹车，一切即将戛然而止。这是悬崖边最后一抹风景，深潜时最后一口氧气，末日前最后一支舞曲。他却没法告诉任何人，没法纪念，他甚至想象不出在这里普遍美国化的墨西哥餐馆和Félix吃最后一顿晚餐。

分不清是谁肚子叫了一声，看来他们都没赶上吃晚饭。

“你想吃点什么吗？我知道离这儿不远日落大道5808号有个炸卷饼摊，青萨尔沙酱特别地道，我以前念航校的时候常去。”

“你确定还在营业？”

他们找到了那家在加油站旁边通宵营业的墨西哥小食店，Amado停好车就去买吃的。当他两手端着廉价的彩色塑料餐盘回到车旁，Félix也从加油站的商店买来啤酒和玉米片。

这个即将垄断整个北美毒品运输网络的男人，此时褪去他的晚礼服，离开他的豪华庄园和五星级酒店，在洛杉矶车水马龙的夜风中，和他一边听电台里María Alma哀婉的旧情歌，一边用手蘸着酱汁吃炸卷饼，弄得到处油乎乎的。吃完走出加油站，老板找不到外套，于是跟他借个火。他望着男人近在咫尺的侧脸，Félix也抬起头，透过火苗试图看清彼此，燃起的点点火星仿佛成了他们之间最后的纽带。Félix已经松开围在他手背挡风的手，Amado还没反应过来，直到打火机烧得发烫才熄了火。

这条永不停歇的大道上，有多少他们这样的陌生人，简单到借个火就能聊会天，等一支烟抽完，同样就此陌路。

"Can I ask you to take me somewhere?"

他愿意载他到世界上任何角落，假如这是一场两个人的逃亡，现在，立刻，马上就走。

等Félix解释清，他才知道老板这么客气的原因，原来是想找个高点俯瞰洛杉矶的夜景。“我不知道你今晚怎么了，看起来欣赏夜景会有帮助。我记得有个电影在这儿拍的可以看到夜景……”可能是他盯着Félix发呆的时间太长了，也可能是男人难得心情好。

有无数的电影都是在这儿拍的，他想说Miguel Ángel的约会技巧真的太差劲。尽管他从未那样叫过他，所有想和他拉近关系的人都那样叫他，Amado选择了保留一点距离的Félix。

他想过叫他Miguel Ángel，偷偷在舌尖尝过这几个发音，也许有他须后水的味道。他想和他约会，请他看电影，在停车场吻他。这些荒谬之极的念头在他脑海中，统统输给了“阻止Félix毁了一切的唯一办法是 **变成** Félix”。

不止是Félix越过了那根红线。Amado比任何人都明白，他也注定要越过道义、荣耀和所有褒义词筑起的红线。Acosta的死让他尝到如沙漠风暴般剧烈的愤怒，但他永远成为不了Acosta，没有人会在一个背叛者死后为他哀鸣。

Félix想过他会背叛，他也想过背叛，没有谁是无辜者。

晚上车子不能像电影里那样直接开到格里菲斯天文台门口，他们不得不走了一段爬好莱坞山的小路。Félix心情好到开玩笑说要是DEA知道错过了在家门口夜路上暗算墨西哥前两大毒枭的机会，大概会集体引咎辞职。

Amado熟悉这个地方，天文台朝西南面的看台风景最好，没有山体的遮掩，风也最大。洛杉矶的夜景其实挺没劲的，除了市中心那几栋楼，城市如繁星点点四散开来，灯火延绵数百平方公里，覆盖几乎整个洛杉矶盆地，也消灭了所有能观看到真的星星的盲点。

“我不止是因为CIA来的，”Félix似乎不介意山顶的冷风，他倚着一架投币望远镜，侧过身迎着Amado。

"This. Amado, this is our future. When we get into retail, the Greater Los Angeles area will be our biggest market with millions of junkies and many well-established Mexican communities."

Félix言语间难掩兴奋，这似乎也是让Amado开心的办法。原来此行老板还与南加州的数个墨裔帮派有过密会，多方都有从仓库到街头合作的意向。未来仿佛就在Félix与城市灯火融为一体的指尖，说得兴起，一时没注意被风吹乱了头发。

在意识到之前，他已经伸手帮Félix把散落前额的头发揽到耳后。他们只喝了点科罗娜啤酒，远远没有醉到冒险在公共场合发生亲密接触的程度。

直到Félix抚摸着他的脸，以从未有过的方式放肆地亲吻他。Amado咬住对方丰满的唇，交缠的舌尖也许泄露那几个陌生的音节，"Miguel Ángel..."

他像对陌生人一样回应着这个大胆的吻。因为这将是他们的最后一吻。


	4. Chapter 4

Félix一定发现了。当老板用腿抵在他发硬的器物上摩擦时，环在后腰的手忽然停止了动作。

他知道这看起来像什么，Félix由CIA掩护入境美国后几乎处于平民状态，脱掉那件神似FedEx快递员的外套，身上连一个打火机都没有。而他除了腰间那把贝雷塔，皮卡后面还有一个小型军械库。相比之下，此时他臂弯中的男人宛如蜕皮新生的尤卡坦矛头蝮，毫不设防。

他可以解释这是防范于未然，谁知道深夜造访藏有20吨可卡因的仓库会撞什么大运；可以不解释，Félix说他是他最得力的“帮手”，这一车能掀翻小半个LAPD的军火，完全可以理解为他保护老板的必需品，就像他一直在做的那样。

Félix就停在那儿。有一只手在背后握着他的枪，这比亲吻本身更让Amado硬得发疼。他想起Félix杀过的人，他都见过，愚蠢的锡纳罗亚老顽固，还有自负的衣冠禽兽政客。他从来没跟谁提过，Félix亲手杀人的样子总能让他意识到一些陌生的东西。在他尽责地询问老板还需不需要什么后，走出房间，隔着一扇门，不远也不近，他便能自由地将刚才的感官刺激转换成精神上的愉悦。

帮派里的打打杀杀就像嬉皮士圈子的杂种大麻，鱼龙混杂，以次充好；自己动手则是医生“例行公事”开的芬太尼，定时定量；而Félix杀人仿佛——他不太愿意这么形容，总得承认哥伦比亚人制造了世界上纯度最高的可卡因——让他兴奋，让他上瘾。

但此时Amado才想起来，老板不会拔出那把枪。因为Félix只杀穿西装的人，不管是配波洛领带还是昂贵的三件套，其它人用不着老板动手。以前他并不知道，还曾经拿自己作赌注，挑衅他认为Félix最重要的旗子，把看似两难的选择题抛到Félix面前，踌躇满志地等待结果。Félix确实在两人之间选择了他，然而除掉Rafael Quintero却无需动半根指头，Félix不会为了权力下位者 **亲自** 动手。

Amado隐隐有一丝沮丧。果然很快Félix的手就回到了前面，隔着裤子握住他，他身上的廉价布料在黑暗中几乎要被擦出火花了。

“We should spend the night somewhere else.”

CIA的安全屋非常意外位于城中，快到达时他们在街角注意到“安全团队”盯梢的车，不止一辆，看来今夜无眠远不止两位异乡人。Amado把皮卡停进车库，站在草坪上又点了一根烟。洛杉矶的凌晨依然充满躁动，威尔希尔大道上有警笛声由东向西渐行渐远，他知道很快这一幕也将在北郊的Sylmar上演，整个世界就像此刻千家万户的居民，享有无法操纵历史的天真和良好睡眠。反复确认周围没有动静，他最终踩灭烟头转身进了屋。

Félix没有换衣服，只是靠在床头看书，衬衫的两颗扣子散开了，看不出任何意图。

“他们只放了一本圣经在这儿。”老板合上暗红色的书封，昏暗的灯光下乍看像杀完人手上干涸的血迹。

Amado脱下外套，顺手拔出腰间的贝雷塔，空气没有像黑帮电影出现剧情转折时那样凝结，Félix平静地看着他像一架预设好航线的飞机，径直把手枪交到年长的男人手里。

"Hold it if it makes you more... comfortable."

Félix嘴角的弧度显示这更像一则黄色笑话，奇怪的是枪在他手里怎么看都不像致命武器。这很离奇，Félix以前也是当警察的，虽然不比Amado在DFS当秘密警察的经历高光，开枪杀人从不是难事。

“你上一次杀人是什么时候？”他忍不住问。

“你和其它人计划背叛我的时候，”Félix眼角仍带着笑意，“我被困在Celis打猎用的老房子里，满地都是没人摘的鹰嘴芒果，Calderoni带人来的时候开了几枪。”

男人说得轻描淡写，Amado清楚那次完全是命悬一线。在锡纳罗亚州政府高层的眼线确认Celis出卖了Félix之后，他才同意去Ensenada参加“背叛Félix新联盟”的会议。

"I didn't betray you."  
"Yeah, I made sure of that."

他下意识地跪在床边，如果那场会议以相反的结局收场，如果他背叛了Félix，如果——他托起Félix的手，像虔诚的信徒赞美主一样，用亲吻来倾诉未说出口的话——这双手不应该用来开枪杀人。

那的确是一双这几年握笔签字比握枪时间多得多的手，愈少见阳光愈苍白。现在有更多像他一样的下属去帮Félix杀人，他们中的许多人甚至没见过“瘦子”的模样，于是也不需要一副凶神恶煞的模样。权力自动为他勾画出令人闻风丧胆的毒枭形象，仰赖贩毒帝国而生的人主动拥他为王，凌驾于每个具象的 _el patrón_ 之上，成为 _el patrón patrón_ 。

Amado骂那些趋炎附势的蠢货都骂成口头禅了，而没人知道他一路追随权力背后的秘密。也许Acosta猜到了，很快又一起带入了坟墓。

他贪恋地吻过每个指节，在Félix手心的黑色金属依然冰冷。

"You know I don't really need a gun, Amado."

Félix缓缓地把手枪往下移到他双腿之间，动作几近优雅，如果生意需要的话他不怀疑男人会去学高尔夫球的挥杆。枪管勾勒出裤子里面的形状，他想要开口，被Félix用另一只手阻止了。

"You don't want them to know, do you? Like Pacho Herrera."

无论出于何种考量，安全屋里肯定有CIA的监听装置。但他不明白Félix为什么会提到哥伦比亚人，除了上一次见面时，对方非常有经验地先派来一位安全专家对会议室做反窃听检查。“You didn't know?” Félix挑眉的样子是他见过最致命的勾引，很快他们就从床边转移到了浴室。

打开花洒，淋浴间升腾起来的水雾，以及把Félix抵在瓷砖上弄得一塌糊涂的触感，比他在华雷斯沙漠里做过最逼真的春梦还湿。他没空消化合作供应商性取向的传闻，当他忙着让头顶的男人继续发出需要CIA后期消音的声响。

那倒是解释了他去恰帕斯确认收货时额外收到的口头消息，来自哥伦比亚第二大贩毒集团当家人的特别问候，甚至还有飞吻。第一个念头是太荒谬了，随即想到他和Félix正在做的事。

"He'd been eye-fucking you the whole time in Panama, cabrón. You want his number or what?"

他想起来的不是Pacho Herrera别样的眼神，而是作为谈判对手，热衷华服的哥伦比亚人那天也穿了西装。在不见血光的角斗中，那才是与Félix旗鼓相当的竞争者。所以男人才会冒如此大风险机关算尽也要针对哥伦比亚人——他能想象子弹穿过层层精致华丽的衣料，血迹最终像成片盛放的三角梅染红Herrera的衬衫，再一点点浸透西装。

这是他最后一次臣服在Guadalajara之王膝下。Amado抬起头，仿佛看见Félix居高临下打量着帝国扩张中的又一具尸体，即将损失70亿美元的敌人。

"Do you want to put a bullet in his head?"

在他嘴里的Félix明显更兴奋了，“No, I'd let him bleed to death.”

他站起身，扯掉Félix身上唯一的衬衫，然后把整个人抱起来抵在墙上，就着面对面的姿势开始侵犯他的老板。

不是这样的。他以为最后一晚他们会做爱，也许还会分享几个小秘密，他会跟Félix讲述奇瓦瓦的老牛仔和艾尔帕索的金发姑娘跨越格兰德河水的爱情故事；还有一个跟他身高完全相反的绰号——关于杀人不眨眼的毒枭在给女儿念童话故事时，决定叫他 _Tontín_ ——白雪公主里最矮的小矮人。他们会在天亮前一直缠绵，不用低头也能感受到对方埋在颈窝的会心一笑。

而不是现在这样，他和在他怀中喘息的男人，同时想象着落在脚边的手枪、喷涌的鲜血、倒下的敌人、近在咫尺的权力，追逐着比彼此滚烫的身体更能摧毁一切的烈焰。Amado闭上眼，懊恼地靠着湿滑的瓷砖一下下顶弄，Félix咬紧嘴唇也无法抑制的呻吟就在耳边，而他光是想到Félix杀人的样子就快高潮了。

等不到了，自己穿上西装有资格成为Félix下手对象的那一天。

*

他离开时CIA的人立刻警觉地进屋检查，Amado轻蔑地摇了摇头，不是舍不得别人看到黎明前Félix头发散乱的样子，他只是拿走一个电话号码而已。

再次从航校机场起飞，洛杉矶已经苏醒。朝阳从地平线升起，透过城区上空的烟霞，让整个城市笼罩在一片猩红的浓雾中。以前他也见过相似的场景，那时他还是新手，只能当副驾驶，飞机掠过恰帕斯北部靠近墨西哥湾的热带雨林，本该是绿色的大地却被红色的烟雾遮盖，有些地方甚至火光冲天。老飞行员告诉他，那是蕉农在焚烧感染了巴拿马黄叶病的蕉林，因为害怕病菌传染更多香蕉树，他们就没日没夜地烧，烧到几百里烟火连绵、遮天蔽日。殊不知那种病是不治之症，所有香蕉树都不能免疫。每一颗商业种植的香蕉都来自同个母本的克隆复制，完全一致的基因，意味着面对同一种威胁绝无例外的缺陷。

在贪婪面前，他们都是感染了巴拿马黄叶病的病株。

Amado拨通了那个哥伦比亚的电话号码，他需要更深入地了解Pacho Herrera，为了将来的合作与背叛。

*

Félix一醒来就看到那本圣经安放在床头柜上，红色的霞光穿透窗帘布，整个屋子像着火一样。圣经及周围有一层薄薄的白灰，可能是前一天洛杉矶附近烧山火的结果，看起来就像昨晚他放下后周遭再无任何动静，一切完好如初，连一粒灰尘的位置都没变过。

他经历了非常棒的夜晚，他想。现在可以回去等那个哥伦比亚的电话了。


End file.
